


Flower Theft

by RoseJennison



Category: Layton Kyouju Series | Professor Layton Series
Genre: F/M, Flowers for Claire, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Some are stolen, That's where Desmond comes in, but it helps them cope, shared pain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-07
Updated: 2015-05-07
Packaged: 2018-03-29 10:07:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3892375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoseJennison/pseuds/RoseJennison
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by this tumblr post:<br/>“Sometimes I steal flowers from your garden on my way to the cemetery, but today you’ve caught me and have demanded to come with me to make sure the “girl is pretty enough to warrant flower theft” and I’m trying to figure out how to break it to you that we’re on our way to a graveyard” AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flower Theft

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ab2fsycho](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ab2fsycho/gifts).



> This is my first Professor Layton story. So I gift this fic to ab2fsycho, since their wonderful stories are what got me into this fandom and onto the USS Deslay.

He'd never been able to visit Claire without bringing her something. 

Sometimes it was food, other times it was new book, and a few times it was a random nicknack that had reminded him of her; but his usual gift was flowers. Claire had loved them, and always found a place to display them no matter how cluttered her apartment had become. It got to the point where she constantly smelled of carnations, or roses, or meadowsweet. 

That's why standing over her grave in the dead of winter was especially painful for Hershel Layton. 

It had been better during the summer. He'd found some field rose growing near his parents' house and, under his mother's guidance, had transplanted several of them in front of her headstone. Once established, the flowers were soon sprawled over and around the grave marker. So then Layton's contribution was the management of the flowers, keeping them from spreading too far and pruning them just enough to keep Claire's name visible. 

Things weren't even that bad in autumn. The field rose no longer blossomed, but they developed bright red berries that the local wildlife loved. When the leaves turned the base of her grave was covered in red, yellow, orange and brown. 

But now it was winter, and her only company was the cold, cracked ground and the clattering of bare branches. Hershel couldn't stand it, and it eventually lead him to do something most unlike a gentleman. 

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The first time it happened, it wasn't the first time he'd noticed the small greenhouse on the way to the graveyard. Nor was it the first time he'd had the idea, but it was the first time he had nothing to give Claire, so it was the first time he gave into them.

The house beside the greenhouse was dark, and there was no sign that anyone else was milling about in the cold of early morning. Despite this, Layton kept looking around him and expecting the owner of the house or a passerby to jump out and denounce him at any moment. The paranoid archeology student quickly sneaked up to the greenhouse, and listened. When he heard only the hum of electricity, he felt safe in assuming it was empty. 

His stomach dropped when he saw the padlock on the door, but it soon turned into unexpected delight. It was actually a puzzle lock. After a few minutes of fiddling, Layton popped the lock off and slid the door open. 

The warm air inside made Layton feel over dressed in his heavy winter coat. Just enough light filtered through the clear plastic roof for him to see how full the small space was; shelves lining each wall, a long table in the center, baskets dangling from the metal frame, and each of them filled with greenery. 

With such volume, surely the owner wouldn't miss a few things now and then...

Despite his attempt at rationalizing, Layton was awash with guilt as he examined the plants. He'd gladly choose more legitimate options for this venture, but fresh flowers grew expensive in mid-winter and he was a full time student. He simply couldn't afford to get flowers, or even snacks, every time he missed Claire and decided to visit her. It happened quite frequently after all.

Hershel quickly found the plant with the most blossoms on it. He wasn't sure what it was, living plants weren't his area of study, but it was in a hanging basket and had a multitude of small magenta blossoms. He picked a few off, went out, refastened the lock to the closed door, and looked around as casually as he could manage. The street was still deserted. 

He still worried about being caught though, and hastily made his way toward the graveyard. He nearly knocked a man over when he took a sharp corner, which made his guilt deepen despite the fact that the man brushed him off and kept walking. Layton relaxed a little once he reached the cemetery and laid the three flowers in front of Claire's grave. Despite the means he used to acquire them, he felt uplifted to see a bit of color returned to the site. 

He told her how school was going, confessed what he'd done to get the flowers, and apologized for his ungentlemanly behavior, begging her understanding. When he turned to go, he saw a few green sprigs had been placed before two headstones in the same row as Claire. He allowed himself a small smile, suddenly feeling validated.

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The number three soon became traditional. He'd steal three small blossoms whenever he visited the cemetery on a low budget week. As time went on he was able to believe his own rationalizations more and more. Claire deserved them, Hershel needed them, and surely the greenhouse owner wouldn't miss them. 

“I thought I recognized you.”

Turns out Hershel had been wrong about the last part. He'd been caught with his hand buried in greenery, having just pulled off the third blossom. Ironically, he'd chosen red ones this time. 

Layton turned and saw what he assumed to be the owner standing in the greenhouse doorway. He was younger than Layton had expected, perhaps only a few years older than himself. His red-rimmed glasses reflected the early sunlight and gave him an intimidating look, despite the somewhat ridiculous style his brunette hair had been curled into. 

“I believe we ran into each other on the street corner a few weeks ago, didn't we?”

Hershel opened and closed his mouth a few times before finally managing to voice a confirmation. 

“You were in quite the hurry then, so this person you've been visiting must be pretty special.” The other man said. Hershel nodded, because there was no way he could deny that. The owner nodded, making his glasses slide down and reveal rust colored eyes. “In that case, I won't stop you.” 

The owner turned sideways and backed up to the edge of the door frame. Surprised, and more than a little wary, Hershel kept an eye on the other man as he approached the door. 

“I'm Desmond Sycamore, by the way.” the owner said once Hershel had reached him. The younger man cringed. He'd been caught stealing from this man and he hadn't even bothered to introduce himself. Claire wouldn't have given him quite the scolding for that. He'd have to try and make up for it.

“My name is Hershel Layton, and I'm sorry we couldn't meet under better circumstances.”

“Oh, it's no trouble.” Desmond assured him. “Well, not much at least. You've been very careful not to take harmful amounts. I just hope whoever has been getting them has received an equal amount of care and consideration.”

Guilt twisted in Layton's stomach, and it took everything in him not to flinch. A part of him wanted to shout that he hadn't, and that Claire had suffered the consequences. Instead he mumbled.  
“I try.” 

He hurried past the man and headed down the sidewalk. Layton heard the door slide shut and the lock click back in place, and then footsteps following after him. Startled, Layton turned around to see Sycamore approaching him. Had the man decided to press charges after all? Was he going to follow Layton home and give police his address?

“Well, aren't we going?” Sycamore asked once he was beside Layton.

“What?”

“I'm coming with you. I simply must see the one worthy of so many accounts of flower theft.”

This time Layton did wince. He felt like he couldn't push Sycamore away though, he deserved to know where his flowers had been going. “If you want to, you may.” He said softly. 

Desmond kept up idle chit chat as they walked, mainly about safe topics like the weather. The one time Hershel tried to promise to pay him back after graduation the man waved it off and said it wouldn't be necessary. Hershel kept trying to think of a way to tell the man precisely where they were going, but he simply couldn't find the words to broach the topic.

However, he noticed that as they got closer to their destination his companion gradually grew quiet. Hershel risked a glance at the man, and saw that the light of mischief had left his eyes and his expression was somber.

Not a word was said when they reached the cemetery. Desmond hovered behind him like a shadow as he came to stand before Claire's grave. 

“Well, here she is.” Layton said, voice soft and undeniably sad. The weight of memories and countless thoughts of what could have been settled over him in that moment. He suddenly regretted letting the other man come along, despite all Layton had stolen, keenly aware of how his vulnerabilities were now on display.

Wanting to be gone, the younger man bent down to place the three flowers on the ground. 

“Hold a moment.”

Layton paused, and looked up at Sycamore. The older man had his hand held out, and Layton hesitantly placed the flowers into it. Desmond selected two of them and gave the third back to Layton. 

Puzzled, Layton watched as the other man walked several steps away and then bent down himself. When Desmond got back up, Layton saw that the two flowers had been placed at side by side graves. The same graves he'd seen with fresh plants a few weeks before. Desmond looked back and locked eyes with Layton; a shared understanding passed between the two.

Hershel lay the remaining flower on the ground, then got up to stand beside Desmond. Neither said anything, there was no need. They both knew the pain; the crushing weight of memories and the hollow pang of regrets. 

Strangely, it didn't feel quite so overwhelming this time. It was as though the mere presence of another grieving soul created a solidarity between them, and made the hurt just a little more manageable. 

When Layton's hand brushed Desmond's, the other man hesitated only a moment before grasping it tightly. It was a long time before either of them let go.


End file.
